Burning
by PositivelyUncertain
Summary: Emily's POV after the locker scene. Slightly smutty, and there's another chapter from Naomi's point of view but I'm waiting to see if people like this one first before I post the next one.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Skins, or anything really except for a packet of cigarretes and an attitude problem.  
A/N: So, this is Emily's point of view after the locker scene. Kinda smutty, but with a point. Comments?

Burning. The only way I can even come close to describing the torturous yet oh-so brilliant sensation which has so effortlesly overcome my entire being as I lie writhing beneath her, powerless to stop the wanting and the needing and the complete and utter feeling of helplessness. Because the alarm bells which were ringing so relentlessly, so frantically, within my mind as she took my hand and pulled me away from the building were soon forgotten the very instant I found myself pressed forcefully against the cool wall of her bedroom. And clearly the ''truth'' pills which I was so strongly urged to shove down my throat had malfunctioned or simply given up the fight, because, had they been working correctly, I would have told her that this had to stop. That _we_ had to stop. That I couldnt, wouldn't, be her fucking doormat anymore. Wouldn't be the weak shadow of a person I was so used to, so good at, being. And instead, I find myself lost in a blur of burning caresses and searing kisses which are, which have to be, I think to myself, premeditated. Because no-one, not even Naomi Campbell with her sparkling eyes and knowing smirk, can be that fucking sexy, that fucking beautiful without realising it. Without knowing that every touch threatens to undo me so completely, that every hushed whisper makes me fall ever harder, and that Katie would simply fucking KILL me if she ever found out. But, with her body pressed firmly against mine and her lips pressed equally as firmly against my own, I vaguely conclude in my lust filled haze that I simply don't care right now. That I don't care if I'm left heartbroken and devestated when she nonchalantly leaves me in her bed just like I know she will. Just like _she_ knows she will.

And so I find myself, not even an hour later, lying beneath her, so utterly powerless and desperate in my need. Shamefully arching up against her touch as her hands, _those_ hands, find their way forcefully yet so very tenderly up my shirt. My shirt, which isn't even mine because, as usual, I can't help but notice, I'm pretending to be someone else. These thoughts run frantically through my mind until they are completely obliterated by her addictive touches which promise nothing yet give everything. Her delicate fingers work determinedly on the buttons of my shirt until she reaches the last button, freeing it almost arrogantly and looking up at me with that smirk which I hate so much. That smirk which I love so much, despite every fucking effort not to. I gather all the strength I can (which, in my current predicamant, isn't much) and push myself up, trying desperately to remove my own shirt. Her hand covers my own, stopping it as it pushes the thin material of the shirt down my shoulder, and she whispers hotly in my ear that I should leave it on, that she wants me to leave it on. Whispers that I look so fucking hot dressed like this and that she wants me. And I oblige because I've never been wanted like this before. Never been wanted so badly by anyone, least of all someone who I've been so completely in love with since the first moment I laid eyes on her. And because I can't recall Naomi ever being this unreserved before, and I'm utterly terrified that she'll never be this unreserved again. I nod weakly, momentarily forgetting my train of thought because her teeth are nipping so fucking addictively against my neck and her hands are gliding softly towards the thin fabric of my bra, confidently (perhaps too confidently for a straight girl) pushing the cups down and exposing my breasts to the cool air of the room. To her and that mouth and its knowing kisses. I gasp, (I'm sure she hears me gasp) as her mouth covers one of my nipples and I arch even further into her touch, wishing more than anything that such intense pleasure wouldn't be so inevitibly followed by an equally as strong pain as she, immediately after, denies this. Denies us.

Her hands makes their way almost innocently up my thighs, her palms pushing my skirt up until it rests bunched up against my hips. And she's so gentle that it almost _is _innocent. Or at least it would be if it wasn't making me so fucking wet, so completely desperate in my need. My tights are pulled down before I can even register, in my current helpless state, what is happening and, after another deafening pause and knowing smirk (_that_ smirk, because I'm pretty sure that she knows exactly what she's doing) she slips my heels back on. And her smirk must be contagious because I find one speading across my own lips as I think to myself that Naomi, the self confessed cock cruncher, is into heels. And it's so wrong but so fucking right at the same time, and I can't help the unapologetic gasp which escapes my lips as her hand finally makes its way between my legs and slips into my thong. I hear another gasp. A gasp which I'm pretty sure mirrors the one which escaped my own lips just seconds before, as it finds its way from between her lips as her fingers slide into my wetness and glide firmly across my clit. My legs wrap themselves tightly around her waist pulling her so close to me, yet not quite close enough. I should, I think to myself, be making every effort to keep my guard up, to remind myself that this feeling of utter bliss is only temporary and that it will be snatched so forcefully from my grasp the instant she realises what she's doing. What _we're _doing. But I find this shred of common sense is completely obliterated because I can't think straight right now, and I'm pretty sure there's an amusing irony in that statement but I can't quite grasp it because her fingers are working so determinedly inside of me and it's all I can do to grasp the pillow above my head and feel as though my entire world is about to collapse around me.

My thong is slipped effortlessly down my legs and finds itself thrown carelessly on the floor, and I barely have time to register the new-found coolness between my legs before she's inside me once again, harder this time. Harder, because I'm pretty sure she gets some sort of sick pleasure from seeing me frantically thrusting against her hand, desperately begging her to give me some form of release. Any form of release, because right now I don't think I can function properly and the plain white ceiling I'm looking up at, which once offered a comforting simplicity, has instead become blurred and distorted. And then, all too quickly yet not quickly enough, the seemingly unrelenting ache between my legs intensifies as those hands finally, as they have threatened to do, _promised_ to do on so many occasions, finally unravel me. And, despite the fact that this is so very wrong, so very dangerous for my already fractured heart, I find myself smirking as I come down from my high, thinking to myself that Katie most certainly won't be getting this outfit back anytime soon.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own Skins. Or anything of any real importance.  
A/N: So this one's from Naomi's point of view and I'd really appreciate comments.

I know I'm so utterly selfish, but I convince myself, try to convince myself, that it's not my fault. Not my fault that she looks so fucking hot spread out beneath me, her hair fanned out in a perfectly tangled mess across my pillow, gasping for breath as though I'm the only person on this earth who can render her so utterly breathless. Not my fault that her skirt was just a little bit too tight against her perfect thighs, that her eyes were just a little bit too mesmerizing, her kisses just a little bit too addictive. And so, I think to myself, I can't, shouldn't really, be held accountable for my actions. Held accountable for the fact that I pressed her so roughly up against the lockers in the middle of the fucking hallway. (In public, for Christ sake.) Or that I so determinedly took her hand and led her into my room to unwrap her like a perfectly treasured present. I kiss a scorching line down her neck, pushing the fabric of her bra down so I can grant myself the selfish luxury of capturing her nipple between my teeth, relishing each gasp, each moan it brings about. Her back arches instinctively, pushing her body further against my own, and any half-hearted attempts to cease the constant throbbing between my legs are rendered utterly useless, because I simply can't resist the flawlessly silky-smooth skin beneath my touch.

I'm utterly and hopelessly paralysed, momentarily at least, as my eyes take in the sight before me. Emily,with her shirt undone and her bra pushed down tantalizingly beneath her breasts, her skirt pushed up by my own hands moments earlier to almost (but not quite, I notice) expose her completely to my wanting touch. A whimper escapes her perfectly formed lips and I know I'd give anything, do anything, to hear that sound again. That I'll never, despite all my deep-rooted denial and careless sarcasm, get tired of hearing that sound. And so who can really blame me for so thoughtlessly allowing myself to give into temptation? And I know that, after this fleeting moment of passion is over and I mentally put myself on trial, I will most certainly plead insanity. The thought is strangely, yet unjustifiably, comforting as my hand finds its way between her legs and into her thong. Which, I can't help but smugly notice, is soaked through. It's removed in an instant, joining my own clothes in a tangled pile upon my bedroom floor, waiting expectantly to be picked up wearily, brokenly, as soon as this is over and reality once again rears its ugly head. She mumbles incoherently as my fingers come into contact with her clit and I feel the fire between her legs, not quite believing that I could be, that I am, the cause of it. And I'm pretty fucking sure that it's a well known fact that one should not play with fire, for fear of getting burnt. But this thought, along with any other coherent musing, soon vanishes into thin air. Not my fault, I remind myself. And I keep reminding myself as my fingers press insistently into her and I watch her completely fall apart beneath me, grasping the pillow tightly between perfect fingers and closing her beautiful eyes tightly as she comes. I gaze down at her in complete awe, watching her gradually drift back to reality before her eyes once again open and she looks at me with such wonder that I honestly don't know how I ever survived without being on the receiving end of such a look.

And then suddenly yet oh-so welcomingly, I find myself flipped over until I'm lying flat on my back with her hovering above me. I know I must look utterly helpless, utterly desperate. Because each touch somehow manages to be too much yet not enough, never enough, all at the same time. And I don't think I've ever been so completely out of control as I am in this moment. But I refuse to care, because right now her teeth are nipping random patterns across my neck and, just before she reaches my collar bone she bites down hard. Hard enough to draw a gasp from my raw lips. Hard enough, I realise, to leave a crimson Emily-shaped bruise across my neck which will perfectly, so very perfectly, mirror the one which she has, albeit unwittingly, left across my heart. I should be thinking that this mark will, come morning, act as yet another painful reminder of just how fucking powerless I am under her gaze. Should be thinking that this will ultimately only ever lead to heartbreak for both of us. That my eyes will inevitably be drawn to the knowing mark every fucking moment I'm awake until it finally, forgivingly, fades. But my brain simply can't, or chooses not to, register these thoughts. Because her thigh has so insistently, so beautifully slid its way between my legs and I can't stop, won't stop, the strangled, breathless moan which escapes from deep within my throat as it comes into contact with my wetness. She kisses down my stomach, pausing, deliberately I think to myself (because she has to know what she's doing to me), just before she reaches my centre. And then everything becomes a blur because her tongue finds my clit and I feel her fingers push inside me so skillfully, so purely.

My fingernails dig roughly, desperately, into the perfect flesh of her back and I know, just know, that they will leave a prominent mark. I wonder to myself if, hours later, she will regard the marks with the same broken heart that I will. If she'll gaze upon them in the mirror with an equal amount of torment as I know I will when I view the mark she has left upon my own skin. My grip increases with every thrust from her fingers, every perfectly timed flick of her tongue against my clit, and I hear her gasp in pain (or perhaps it's pleasure) as her touches become far too much and I find myself reduced to a pathetic unravelled mess as she takes me over the edge, as my hips defiantly jolt upwards and I vaguely, despite the insistent buzzing of my brain, hear myself gasp her name. Not my fault, I once again assure myself.


End file.
